The Mafioso Poems

[Just in case you have arrived at this page looking for information on gangland warfare,
you ought to know that this page is devoted to poems of a group of us who
just wanted a place to be able to easily read each other's work.
I don't know who came up with the name of the group, but it stuck.
Now, we give you permission to enjoy our work anyway.
Use Google to find another page if you want something on gangs.]

wiping my nose on my sleeve

By: Garth Hill

battered, i fight the lethargy of ragweed.
this is any day in autumn; any spring.

the molds, the grasses, the rashes and boils,
i pull on the mask of St. Benadryl

to no avail. these are the days and nights
of the battle on the cliffs and the microbes

which cut my ropes. tattered, i cling
and ache and struggle to think. a phrase

is flung from the far docks of memory into
the lake of consciousness, where it floats

face-down like a corpse. it is i who must
man the row boats and decide

if i will reach out to it with a billhook, drag
it back to shore and turn it over. through the fog

of sinus pressure i hear vague voices telling me
every refugee of the heart identified

is some sort of victory.

9-21-04

Reunion

By: Glenn Currier

We tramp in
the leaves of our souls
browned and burnished
by the falls and springs
of our semester-lives
composed of crossings.

We tramp in
one foot then the other
our leather soles worn
by traverse of thresholds
leaving dust of fear
and being separate.

We tramp in
our histories
of bleary dusks
and gray dawns
and green beginnings
born in sacred circles.

We tramp in
with our maps
tracing our crazy paths
from Mondays to Fridays
and too many Saturdays
yet… arriving intact and sane.

We tramp in
to embracing arms
vanilla–candled eyes
the cinnamon touch of love
and the common taste and feel
of the oil of possibility.

We tramp in
to the tinkling and telling of life stories
formed in the poetry of seasons.
We gather and thunder
the silent awakenings
of our souls and the courage to teach.

- Dedicated to all those summoning and summoned to formation

09/12/2004

 

SPIRIT OF THE WEST

By: Joe David

Train whistles wail in the night
Intruding on my sleep.

Search for coffee in the pre-dawn,
The holy grail of the morning.

Leaving the rocky caliche path
I step on the floating bridge.

My steps cause it to move
Like some great water monster.

Golf balls float in the pond
Caught in Sargasso slime.

A dragonfly struggles in a spider web
Then gives in to the inevitable.

I enter the sacred space of the kiva
And take my place in the Circle.

The gong calling us to silence,
Once again we set off on our inward journey.

The dark red sun peaks up over the trees
And golden rays stream through the blinds.

Seeds are given and used in many ways.
All are cherished.

At the end, the Circle stands.
The candle flickers in the center.

9-15-04

 

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